


Miscellaneous Tumblr Prompts

by FernDavant



Category: Class (TV 2016), Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, One Shot Collection, miscellaneous, non-binary doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 21:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 9,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/pseuds/FernDavant
Summary: Miscellaneous Tumblr Prompt Fills. Each chapter is a different prompt with different ships, warnings, etc. See chapters for more information.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All I wanted was your honesty," Missy/12, for actual-bill-potts

“All I wanted was your honesty,” the Doctor says.

Missy doesn’t flinch. She almost does, but she controls it at the last second.

“I’m the honest one, Doctor,” the Master interrupts. “It’s you who tells lies. Like to your little friend here. She waited for so long.  _Years,_ Doctor, while we watched you natter on. She waited, and you didn’t save her.”

Missy clinches her jaw. She doesn’t appreciate the interruption, although her other self has a good point (she always has excellent points, no matter the incarnation). 

The Doctor winces, but they don’t bother answering the Master. Their eyes are focused on Missy, red-rimmed and pleading. “I thought you were better than this. I thought you’d made  _progress_. But here you are, colluding with your former self. You’re  _literally_ backsliding.”

“I’m not colluding,” Missy snaps. “I don’t even remember this.”

Her former self blinks at her, confused. “But what a fortuitous opportunity, no?” he prompts.

The Master almost certainly detects the moment of hesitation before Missy agrees, but the Doctor is too furious to do the same.

The Doctor is too furious to forgive her, so why not be unforgivable? 

“Yes,” Missy agrees. “A once in a lifetime opportunity.”

The Master relaxes into a smirk. It looks good on them.

And so they dance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Missy met River? 
> 
> For: anonymous

A woman and a TARDIS always spelled trouble.

River knew this better than most. She’d perfected it, made it an art, and she looked damn good while doing it, to be sure.

The woman in front of her obviously knew it too, leaning surreptitiously against a column as she put another coat of lipstick on. But River knew that column was a TARDIS, one with a working chameleon circuit. And River knew the woman was a Time Lord, not just from the fact that she had a TARDIS, but also from the outrageous choice in clothing and the exaggerated over-dramatic flair that she had. 

Rived knew she had been rumbled too, when the woman glanced up at her, eyes dark, smirk sinful and unpleasant. The woman crooked a finger at River, and normally River wouldn’t have followed such an obvious command, but there was something about the other woman that demanded obedience. Plus, River was curious, and you know what they said about curiosity. 

“River Song,” River said, introducing herself immediately because she got the feeling this wasn’t a woman who could be lied too. “And who might you be?”

“Your worst nightmare,” the woman replied coyly, bumping elbows with River.

River snorted. “Not even close.”

The other woman sniffed….or perhaps sniffed her. “You’re that freaky little TARDIS kiddo.”

River bristled. “I suppose infamy is preferred to anonymity.”

“Funny opinion for a thief,” the woman retorted, holding up a rather impressive looking necklace. 

Without her realizing, the other woman had used sleight of hand to snatch the priceless crown jewel of Hegliamave, right from River’s pocket, likely when they’d bumped shoulders.

Oh, this woman was good. River was impressed. “If you won’t tell me who you are, will you at least agree to work with me?”

“On this heist? Girlfriend, this is amateur hour. Flutter some eyelashes at the crown prince, and he’ll give you his entire net worth. It’s not even stealing when they give it away. Now, you want to really steal something…I’ve got a heist for you.”

River was intrigued, despite not trusting this woman as far as she could throw her. “I’m listening.”

“Have you ever heard….of a King Hydroflax?”

As the mystery woman went on, River realized something: she might not know this woman’s name, but she was trouble. And River loved trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love you, you asshole," Missy/12, for anonymous

“I love you, you asshole.”

The Doctor was rather affronted by the epithet. FIrst of all, in this relationship, they weren’t the asshole. It was obvious that they weren’t. For example, they weren’t the one who went around deliberately murdering people. They weren’t the one who had narrowly escaped execution for heinous,  _heinous_ crimes. They  _were_ the one whose arm hurt from being punched, none too kindly, by Missy, when they’d suggested, perhaps, maybe, she should try confessing things. Missy was spending an unhealthy amount of time these days, trapped in a vault, crying. And perhaps if she just talked about some of her crimes, voiced them, then maybe some of the pain would ease.

Wait.

Hold on.

“That’s not the confessing I meant,” the Doctor responded awkwardly. “Also, you could be a bit nicer about it.”

“I’m hitting my quotient for nice,” Missy said. 

The Doctor pretended not to notice the tears. It tended to be better that way. “I know.”

“And you’re not helping.”

“No, I mean…about the other thing. I know.”

“Oh, should I only be confessing things you don’t know about?”

“That’s not what I–” they sighed, stumbling over their words.

“And that’s not the usual response for these things. Unless you’re Han Solo. Which you, very much, are  _not_ , I should point out. Next time you regenerate though, if you could  _aim_ for Harrison Ford, I’m not saying I’d complain.”

“I’ll keep it under consideration. And, you know, I erm. I feel very many things for you too.”

Missy faked a swoon. “So romantic.”

They clenched their fists. “Why are we even doing this?”

“It was your suggestion, asshole,” Missy pointed out. She shot up suddenly, rising from the chair next to him in which she had been seated, and stomping off towards the force cage. She locked herself into the cage (which meant that she could unlock herself with ease, but the Doctor had long suspected that) and started violently playing piano. 

“Missy,” they began.

No response but the angry crash of keys.

“Please.” Their voice almost entirely drowned out now. 

The Doctor left the vault soon after. Their hearts ached.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelvedole, cuddling out of necessity, for anonymous

“It’s a bit cramped in here,” Nardole commented to the front of the Doctor’s shirt. Not entirely unpleasant though, what with the lovely soft velvet of the Doctor’s jacket, or the pleasing amount of body heat (cyborgs still got cold) that they were both generating in this rather drafty closet. 

“I’ve had worse,” the Doctor commented, hugging their arms around Nardole, pulling him further away from the door. “Certain prison cells, for example. Which is where we’ll end up if you don’t shut up.”

Nardole quieted a bit, neglecting to point out that the Doctor hadn’t stopped hugging him. Well, fine. Nardole wouldn’t stop rubbing his cheek against the velvet then, would he?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twissy, cuddling in public, for Zabbers who was feeling 'a bit perverse'

They ran into each other a distressing amount.

Admittedly ‘any’ was a distressing amount, as his hearts always clenched and destruction always loomed whenever the Doctor ran into Missy. Especially when he was travelling alone. That was always dangerous.

And she sat in his lap a distressing amount.

Admittedly ‘any’ was a bit of a distressing amount, especially when he’d been having tea outside of a cafe in Italy, and she’d just walked up, natural as anything, and plopped herself in his lap, taking his tea cup from his hands and sipping daintily at it.

“Hello, lover,” she purred.

“What–” he sputtered. “Why? Where?” 

He was a mess of interrogatives. 

“Fancy meeting you here.” One hand still holding the tea cup, the other in his hair, a quick kiss pressed to his forehead. 

“No,” feebly said. He could have pushed her off, if he’d really wanted. Should do, as other patrons, and a waiter with a terrible mustache, were now staring at him.

She bent to whisper in his ear (and completely unnecessarily, nibble at it). “Something’s going to explode in a minute.”

Finally, he shoved her off. “Dont!”

“Too late,” she chirped, then skipped off, disappearing into a crowd even as he trailed after her.

And peculiarly, nothing exploded.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twelve/missy/nardole, clown-car cuddling on one of the chairs in the vault, for whifferdills/levendis

It had started with a book. The Doctor had gone into the TARDIS for a quiet place to read. A place that didn’t have Nardole’s nagging or Missy’s mischiefing or any other alliterative bollocks to distract.

Nardole had come in first. He had the bag of crisps the Doctor had requested two months ago, which the Doctor thought was strange, but they couldn’t quite put their finger on the reason why.

Missy was next, ostensibly there to change the filter on the chrono-spatial oscillators, which, well, fair enough. The filters on them had never been changed, at least not while the Doctor had been in possession of the TARDIS, and it was on their to-do list anyway (it just had been on said to-do list for thousands of years).

Missy was first into his lap, because evidently changing the filter involved about five minutes of worldess singing in a passable soprano followed by a minute and a half of stealing their crisps. The ensuing period of sitting in their lap and making kissy noises at them was unappreciated. The hair-stroking and neck nuzzling was viewed more favorably.

When Nardole caught them–and there truly was no better word for it–canoodling, he went through a wide array of emotions. Shock, horror, disgust, hunger (it was really a quite big packet of crisps, go him for the initiative), curiosity, jealousy.

His face journey was no long on Missy. “Scootch.”

“I’m *reading*,” the Doctor whined.

“And purring like a cat with cream. You’re enjoying the attention. But budget up a bit, Nardy wants to join in.”

“*You’re* not allowed to call me Nardy!” Nardole said, momentarily forgetting himself, only to sheepishly add, “miss.”

“What *are* you? The butler? The fuck buddy? Your relationship is really quite baffling. Doctor, what is he?”

“He’s Nardole,” the Doctor shrugged.

“I wouldn’t be adverse to sitting with you, sir,” Nardole admitted, summoning the not inconsiderable courage to ignore Missy (likely at his own peril).

The Doctor looked at the two of them. They looked at the chair. They looked back at the two of them.

“Go on then,” the Doctor sighed. “If either of you break the chair, I’m venting you into the vacuum of space.”

Missy had the good graces of actually moving a little, and fairly soon both Nardole and her were sitting on the Doctor’s lap. The Doctor neglected to mention that the chair might have been slightly bigger on the inside, as was their wont to make everything. 

The Doctor was slightly cross about the situation as they had no way of getting to their book any longer–they couldn’t hold it in front of them in the space between Nardole and Missy, for the space was too small, but they also couldn’t put their arms around both Missy and Nardole and still bring the book in front of themselves, so reading was right out.

Right out for other reasons too, like Nardole resting his head against their head and smiling beatifically. And Missy sticking a wet finger in their ear, just to listen to the sound the Doctor made in reaction.

It was passable. Not enough snacks though, as the Doctor couldn’t get to the store in their pockets. Thankfully, Nardole rescued the situation. Apparently there’d been a sale on the crisps. 3 for the price of one.

And thus an afternoon passed, both uncomfortable and comfortable, Schrodinger’s concept of comfort, and filled with crunchy potato products.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cuddle Prompt: Last cuddle (if you’re feeling super angsty) for Twelve/Missy,' for anonymous

This was their favorite jumper. Their favorite jumper with the holes in it, the holes that looked like stars on a flat black sky. It was their favorite jumper and it was getting positively ruined with all this stupid blood of theirs. 

The Doctor stumbled into Missy, their legs beginning to give out. 

Missy huffed. “God, you’re heavy. Nardole feeds you too much, you’re getting a belly. Come on, just a little further, back to the TARDIS.”

“Oops,” the Doctor said, as their legs failed entirely, knees crashing to the ground hard, leaving Missy no choice but to half fall down with him, albeit far more gracefully. “All this doesn’t seem to be working.”

“What?”

“My body,” the Doctor said, hands, joining knees, on the ground. “Never regenerated from a stab wound before. Or died, maybe I’m dying. It really hurts.”

“You’re not dying,” Missy said, or rather almost shrieked, panic evident in her voice. Missy reached under their armpits and heaved them up. She was stronger than them, she could handle it. 

The Doctor whimpered. “Please, stop. It hurts.”

Or not. Missy stopped, despite herself, and set them down gently. Missy was cruel, sure, but only for fun.

This wasn’t fun. 

“Come on,” and god, she was crying too now. “Rest your head in mistress’ lap.”

They were awfully pale. Missy brushed their hair back from their eyes. Lovely hair this body had. She’d miss it. 

“No. Missy. You’ve got to leave me alone. You’ll get all burnt up when I regenerate.”

“I feel like a change myself, you know? This body’s too short. Don’t like the shoe size. Want a different nose.”

“Missy, no!” the Doctor said, and tried to scramble away, but they were too weak and Missy too strong.

Missy held him firmly, but gently, one hand smoothing his chest, well above the stab wounds, of course, the other carding through his hair. “There, there. Close your eyes, and it’ll all be over soon.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twelvedole, platonic cuddling while sick, for anonymous

The Doctor never got sick. Their superior Time Lord physiology rendered them mostly immune to the plagues and sicknesses that seemed to cover the universe. If, on the rare occasion, some rogue virus or cocky bacteria did manage to get them sick, a good hard sneeze would usually do the trick, and they’d be right as rain.

And Nardole never got sick, either. He was an android–part organic, part hardy robot. And the Doctor, who serviced those components Nardole couldn’t service himself and who found much of the spare parts that Nardole was comprised of, tried to get him the best parts and did a good job with service and maintenance (genius that they were). Before, when he’d been all organic, Nardole rarely got sick. Hearty Nardole, that’s what some people used to call him. ‘Course that was mostly when he was tucking in to a giant plate of spaghetti or something equally delicious. But the point still stood.

Two more constitutionally sound beings could scarce be found in the universe.

So why were they both feverish and sneezing and generally miserable?

“I’m not sick,” the Doctor said. “I can’t be. It’s impossible. I’m never sick.”

Nardole, who was infinitely less stubborn than the Doctor, as well as infinitely more sensible, had a giant pot of chicken soup that he was cheerfully carrying back to the bed he was sharing with the Doctor. “Of course not. I brought soup!”

“Two spoons?”

“Two spoons.”

“Why am I in bed?”

“Because when you weren’t,” Nardole said, pulling the covers back, only for the feverish Doctor to immediately start shivering and scramble to grabbing for the covers even as Nardole tucked himself in, “you sneezed so hard you hit your head on the time rotor. I’m not even sure how you did that, but I think verticality is ill-advised for you, sir, at least for the present moment.”

The Doctor snatched up a spoon and began slurping at Nardole’s soup. Nardole, who sensed he might have no soup left if he wasn’t quick about it, started eating himself. Their spoons occasionally clinked at each other, like some sort of soup battle. The two were silent for a while as the soup was diligently finished. Once done, Nardole put the bowl on the side table, flicked off the lights, and snuggled into the Doctor. “Sleepy time!” 

“I don’t need to sleep. I’m not tired,” a very bad-tempered Doctor replied. 

“But sleep will help you get your health back, won’t it?” Nardole coaxed.

“Sleep and tea,” the Doctor admitted. “Why can’t I just drink a lot of tea.”

“Because then you’ll need to wee all the time and you’ll probably sneeze so hard you’ll knock your head on the toilet, and isn’t that a way to regenerate? Just go, take a nap,” Nardole gently patted the Doctor’s head in encouragement. 

The Doctor huffed but snuggled imperceptibly closer into Nardole, eyes falling shut. “I hate you.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” Nardole said. He gave one last hearty sneeze before falling asleep. 

The Doctor, to their great consternation, followed soon after. By the time they were awake, they felt perfectly healthy again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cuddling prompt, in bed, twissy, for anonymous

The Doctor never got sick. Their superior Time Lord physiology rendered them mostly immune to the plagues and sicknesses that seemed to cover the universe. If, on the rare occasion, some rogue virus or cocky bacteria  _did_ manage to get them sick, a good hard sneeze would usually do the trick, and they’d be right as rain.

And Nardole never got sick, either. He was an android–part organic, part hardy robot. And the Doctor, who serviced those components Nardole couldn’t service himself and who found much of the spare parts that Nardole was comprised of, tried to get him the best parts and did a good job with service and maintenance (genius that they were). Before, when he’d been all organic, Nardole rarely got sick. Hearty Nardole, that’s what some people used to call him. ‘Course that was mostly when he was tucking in to a giant plate of spaghetti or something equally delicious. But the point still stood.

Two more constitutionally sound beings could scarce be found in the universe.

So why were they both feverish and sneezing and generally miserable?

“I’m not sick,” the Doctor said. “I can’t be. It’s impossible. I’m never sick.”

Nardole, who was infinitely less stubborn than the Doctor, as well as infinitely more sensible, had a giant pot of chicken soup that he was cheerfully carrying back to the bed he was sharing with the Doctor. “Of course not. I brought soup!”

“Two spoons?”

“Two spoons.”

“Why am I in bed?”

“Because when you weren’t,” Nardole said, pulling the covers back, only for the feverish Doctor to immediately start shivering and scramble to grabbing for the covers even as Nardole tucked himself in, “you sneezed so hard you hit your head on the time rotor. I’m not even sure how you did that, but I think verticality is ill-advised for you, sir, at least for the present moment.”

The Doctor snatched up a spoon and began slurping at Nardole’s soup. Nardole, who sensed he might have no soup left if he wasn’t quick about it, started eating himself. Their spoons occasionally clinked at each other, like some sort of soup battle. The two were silent for a while as the soup was diligently finished. Once done, Nardole put the bowl on the side table, flicked off the lights, and snuggled into the Doctor. “Sleepy time!” 

“I don’t need to sleep. I’m not tired,” a very bad-tempered Doctor replied. 

“But sleep will help you get your health back, won’t it?” Nardole coaxed.

“Sleep and tea,” the Doctor admitted. “Why can’t I just drink a lot of tea.”

“Because then you’ll need to wee all the time and you’ll probably sneeze so hard you’ll knock your head on the toilet, and isn’t that a way to regenerate? Just go, take a nap,” Nardole gently patted the Doctor’s head in encouragement. 

The Doctor huffed but snuggled imperceptibly closer into Nardole, eyes falling shut. “I hate you.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” Nardole said. He gave one last hearty sneeze before falling asleep. 

The Doctor, to their great consternation, followed soon after. By the time they were awake, they felt perfectly healthy again. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ace!12 + Nardole for anonymous

“I don’t do, erm, this,” the Doctor said, making a broad sweeping gesture across the whole front of their body, roughly from neck to groin.

“You don’t do corporeal forms?” Nardole asked, frowning. “That’s okay. I’m not hung up on mine.”

“No! I do them. They’re a hobby. I just don’t do–” this time they smashed their hands together and then turned them a bit.

“Making farting noises with your palms?”

“No!” they’d gone an odd shade of red now. And they were also now slamming his fingers together, like in the world’s most delicate, yet fervent round of applause.

“Use your words, sir,” Nardole said, because sometimes the Doctor forgot and also because they were presently being pretty baffling.

“I know you want to…you know…with me. People who like me always seem to. It’s only. I…don’t. Don’t really do that. The sex thing. I mean.”

“Oh,” Nardole replied. 

“Yeah,” the Doctor said, making a bit of a face then suddenly becoming intensely interested in touching every item on their desk and avoiding all forms of eye contact.

“Permission to hug you, sir?” Nardole asked.

“Why?” the Doctor responded, suspicious. They’d literally just veto-ed all the sexy stuff.

“Because you’re being a big silly,” Nardole folded his arms in front of them, in lieu of the hug, at least for the time being. “Have you been worrying about this the whole time, sir?”

“No,” the Doctor sneered.  _Yes_ , the Doctor meant.

“Sir, my sex drive is literally a drive. It’s got an on/off switch. You installed it.”

“Exactly, which is how I know it works,” the Doctor nodded.

“It’s just one part of the Nardole experience. It’s not the whole hog, as it were. And the Nardole experience is rather fond of you, sir.”

“Yes, I got that bit–”

“Fond of you  _without_  the sex. And will continue to be very fond of you. Without the sex. Forever more.”

“But you’re not going to want to…you know.” To say ‘sex’ was terrible. But to say ‘gently stroke my hair and tell me everything is okay,’ would be an even worse thing, on multiple levels. Far too much weakness in that.

“Sir, permission to hug?”

The Doctor rolled their eyes. “Fine! Permission granted.”

Nardole scooped the Doctor into a bear hug. The Doctor sighed and relaxed into it, but still did not wrap their arms around Nardole in return.

“Nothing’s changed between us, sir,” Nardole said.

“Oh,” the Doctor said. They felt rather thick. This seemed to happen a lot to them when it came to interpersonal communication. “Well. That’s alright then.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie & Quill, "Am I supposed to be scared of you?" for Kieran-SW

“Am I supposed to be scared of you?” Quill asked.

Charlie attempted to say something, but didn’t manage around the fake vampire-fangs he was wearing. Some of the black spray-dye he’d used in his usually-blond hair had mixed with his sweat and was dripping a long black line down one of his temples. He kept half-choking on his plastic teeth and tripping over his cape.

It was pathetic. (And slightly endearing, if you asked Matteusz).

“I’m not sure,” Charlie finally managed to get out, spitty fangs now in his hands. “I’m either trying to scare small children or spirits of the dead away. The internet wasn’t clear.”

“Is just for fun,” Matteusz corrected. He looked much less awkward in his Van Helsing getup than Charlie did in his Dracula outfit. But then again, it was hard not to look cool in a leather duster and big boots. Charlie wasn’t the suspicious sort, but maybe he should have been suspicious about the costumes Matteusz had picked out for each of them.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Quill said, in case such a thing was ever in doubt. “And small children aren’t liable to be either, let alone the long dead spirits of our elders. Do they have to be scared off a lot on Earth? Because if so, that’s really quite…concerning.”

Matteusz shook his head. “Just fun,” he repeated, holding out a piece of fabric to Quill.

“What the hell is that?” Quill asked, looking at the black lump Matteusz was offering.

“Charlie said that you have to come to party too to protect him. So I took the liberty of getting you a costume. It’s a witch’s hat. It’s festive!”

“I think I’ll just go as someone who isn’t presently murdering you, thanks,” Quill said, arms crossed.

Yeah, perhaps the hat was pushing it a bit. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Class Squad, “Do you ever think if people heard our conversations they’d lock us up?”, for Bazwillendinflames.

“Do you ever think if people heard our conversations they’d lock us up?” April asked.

“No,” Ram replied. “I know they’d lock us up.”

“Same,” Tanya said, knocking her cornetto against Ram’s cornetto, like some kind of ice cream toast. 

“I’m not 100% sure on human social norms, still,” Charlie said. This was abundantly clear from the way he’d bitten the bottom of the cornetto and was now frantically trying to do damage control. It wasn’t working out too well, and a huge glob of ice cream had landed in his lap. 

The four of them were sitting outside Charlie’s flat, loitering and eating ice cream.

Matteusz had gone to get napkins. 

“Honestly, I really  _don’t_ worry about it too much. Frown-lines would ruin all of this,” Ram said, gesturing to his face and winking broadly at April.

“People probably just think we’re stupid teenagers talking about video games. I had a whole chat on Skype with Ram about killing a monster and my mom told me to stop playing video games and finish my homework.”

“Is excellent cover,” Matteusz agreed with a nod, handing Charlie napkins, with a fond, if exasperated, look on his face. 

A scream rang out from the rough direction of Coal Hill.

“Speak of the devil,” Ram sighed.

“Who said anything about the devil?” Charlie asked bewildered.

A lot of people, it would turn out, as a giant devil-looking thing had come from the bunghole. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill about Twelve and Missy, "Why don’t they just kiss already?", for anonymous

“Why don’t they just kiss already?” Bill asked, offering some crisps to Nardole. 

Nardole squeaked out a noise of protest, then shook his head. “What? Why would they ever? She’s evil. Do you know how many people she’s killed?”

“Do you know how many he’s killed?” Bill pointed out, nodding in the direction of the two Time Peoples were. Missy was presently playing a game of “I’m-not-touching-your-console/Oops-I’m-touching-your-console,” and the Doctor was rising to her bait and slapping her hands away every time. If this were a movie, pretty soon the two would start wrestling each other playfully while giggling, then make out.

It wasn’t a movie though. Which was a relief because Bill really didn’t want to see the Doctor making out with someone, or worse,  _giggling_. 

“They’ve got chemistry. You’ve got to admit that at lest.”

“Only when  _she’s_  making a bomb.”

“His eyes go all bright when he sees her, even if he’s angry with her.”

“Alertness.”

“She’s hot.”

“That is absolutely besides the point!”

“So you think so too?” Bill asked, laughing. “Look, it’d probably do both of them good, easing all that tension. Can’t be healthy. He probably carries it all in his eyebrows.”

“There are other ways to relieve tension,” Nardole huffed, before storming off deeper into the TARDIS, seemingly disgusted with the sight and unable to take it any longer.

Bill could’ve sworn he was jealous. And she wasn’t sure who of.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quill, “I can’t explain right now, but I need you to trust me,” for evilqueenofgallifrey/mayfairy
> 
> I stole her headcanon that the Queen made it so the arn-ed Quill couldn’t talk, so that when she died….

“I can’t explain right now, but I need you to trust me,” the Prince said.

“Why the fuck should I trust you? That is the single stupidest thing I have ever heard anyone say to me,” Quill said, then she closed her mouth in shock. Nothing hurt. In fact, she’d manage to get the words out, easy as anything. Something was wrong with the telepathic connection to that tyrant mother of the prince’s, the one that meant she couldn’t get out insults without excruciating pain, that meant she couldn’t even try to speak unless she’d been spoken too. “You supercilious little–”

“We’re going to die,” he choked out.

And he meant it. He was crying and shaking, something Quill hadn’t noticed at first, what with the glee of finally being able to tell him exactly what she thought. “What’s wrong?”

And that was when the shadows came alive.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who gave you that black eye?" with Missy, for anonymous

“Who gave you that black eye?” Missy asked as the Doctor walked into the vault, this time with Indian food, a wide variety of curries if her nose was smelling correctly (and it did tend too, good nose, this regeneration).

“You should’ve seen the other guy,” the Doctor responded with a grin that slowly turned into a frown. “I wasn’t predicting that response. Tell me I look bad.”

“You look bad, and the other guy probably looks better,” Missy replied, snatching the bag that most smelled like vindaloo from his grasp. 

“He looks…well actually, you’re right. He does. He didn’t get hurt. But it’s only due to the fact that I didn’t hit him.”

“Because you couldn’t,” Missy said, relieving the Doctor of another several bags, this time in the search for plastic utensils. She found only sporks. They never did let her have forks or knives, not after the impaling of ‘73, at least.

“Because I could’t,” the Doctor agreed, failing to see how much of a loser this made them sound like. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Oh yeah, all pacifism you,” MIssy said before viciously biting into some chicken. “Slightly less genocides to your name than me, because that’s the benchmark.”

The Doctor frowned. They did not say that Nardole had given them a blackeye, which was lucky, as this was probably the only detail that could have made them look even more foolish in Missy’s eyes.

But damn if Nardole couldn’t pack a punch.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want my best friend back," with Missy, for cyrstalsoulslayer

“I want my best friend back,” Missy said. She sat back down, kicking the table she’d just flipped over for good measure.

The Doctor, on their hands and knees, searching for Scrabble tiles, made a small ‘oof’ sound as a hard corner of the table poked into their side.

“That was uncalled for,” the Doctor pouted. Their hand hurt. They lifted it up. There was an ‘A’ digging into their palm. “I let you have ‘rix’ even though it’s a suffix, but then when I try to play ‘asterix,’ you flip the board?”

“I’m fed up. I’m a prisoner.”

The sound of the Doctor biting their cheek was almost audible. “I’m not particularly free–”

“I’m a prisoner, and you’re my bloody jailer. Well, I don’t want that anymore.” Missy sniffed. Her eyes were disturbingly watery, when the Doctor looked up, though they were relieved to see no actual tears had fallen. 

They were terrible at dealing with crying women, and Missy, presently, technically, was a woman, but not, thankfully, a crying one. “Please,” the Doctor began, no clue as to how they were going to end the sentence, hoping their mouth would improvise something by the end, “you just have to be good.” Ah. The old improvisation trick had worked.

“I’m trying! I helped that strange lumpy man rescue you after the TARDIS malfunctioned, and what did I get? You looked at me like I was a monster. Like I was a naughty child. Like I was nothing, less than nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have–”

“Oh, I suppose I should have just left you there? Even after he’d ask me for my help? Is that  _good_? I’m fair from an expert, but that feels like something I’d do instinctively. Ergo, bad. Because I am, obviously, bad.”

The Doctor wondered if that was a hint of self-loathing from Missy. But surely not? “I’m sorry I upset you. That was not my intention.”

Missy opened her mouth to continue arguing, but immediately found herself wrong-footed. “Oh. Well. Alright then. Can you not treat me like a prisoner?”

“You’re not a prisoner. Or you’re just as much a prisoner as I am. But you’re….of course you’re my friend,” the Doctor stood up, 16 Scrabble tiles, a coin, and some jelly babies in their hands. They had a tentative smile on their face. 

Missy sniffed again, futzed with her mascara until she was sure it wasn’t running or going to run. “Good.”

“Great.”

“Excellent.”

“Can we shag now?”

The Doctor choked and dropped the contents of their hands. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twelvedole, "And what did we learn from that?” “Not to mess with you," for orelseatleastsheunderstoodit

Nardole shook his hand. One of his knuckles was bleeding. Probably from the chipped tooth the Doctor now had. “And what did we learn from that?” 

“Not to mess with you,” the Doctor said, spitting some blood from their mouth. “Although, your aim could do with some improvement. And your form too. Mohammad Ali himself–”

“Called you a ‘white devil’ and wouldn’t come to your guitar concert. I was there. Don’t try it on with me, sir. Not now.”

“We could visit, Mo, you know. You quite liked him. You–” the Doctor juked, tried to run off again.

The Doctor took a karate chop to the neck, then went down to the ground in a heap. It stopped the babbling  _and_ the attempt at running away. “This is for your own good, sir.”

“Hrk,” the Doctor said. Then they made a wheezing noise.

“You weren’t even in the same  _galaxy_  last week. Next you won’t even be in the same universe–and yes, I know travelling between universes is nearly impossible, but it’s not entirely impossible, so you’d manage it, no doubt. And bring back universe-parasites that destroy universes. And then where would we be? No doubt  _she_  would slip away, unharmed, and then what would happen.”

The Doctor responded only in coughs and hoarse noises for a few minutes, before they finally rolled onto their back. “You’re enjoying this,” they accused.

“Please. You could kick my arse in a heartbeat if you wanted. You’re a terrible  _transparent_  masochist. Now get up, get some tea, and stop thinking about time travel.”

The Doctor give Nardole a look that confirmed they would drink their tea, but would  _not_  stop thinking about time travel, thanks very much, then they sort of wandered off.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve/Clara, cuddling in lieu of kissing, for anonymous

The Doctor has really thin lips.  He seems like the kind of guy who should always have chapped lips with the way he’s always pressing them together or sucking and biting on his spitty fingers.

That’s gross. That’s terribly gross, and his cuticles are shredded. And his lips should probably be chapped, but they never really are. His stupid, likely soft, lips.

Lips that Clara is absolutely not looking at far more often than she should be.

And she shouldn’t be, because she’s agreed to take this slow, at the pace he wants, but it’s a sort of two steps forward, one step back, thing with him. And today he doesn’t want to do the ‘mouth thing.’

And she… _cares_ very much for him, and has already experienced how good he is at the ‘mouth thing’—multiple mouth things—before, so this shouldn’t be as difficult as she’s finding it currently.

But he’s just tried very, very hard to make Clara laugh, then proceeded to pretend that what he said wasn’t that funny, all while giving her that small, pressed-lip smile, and she has a sudden, almost unbearable desire to kiss him.

Instead, Clara picks up a pillow and starts picking at it.

They’re both sitting in Clara’s living room, on Clara’s couch, on opposite ends. Ostensibly, to decompress. They’ve just…well they’ve just done what they do. Aliens and revolutions and explosions.

They are decompressing.

Clara doesn’t feel very decompressed.

And judging by the way the Doctor is, despite the fact that he’s sitting slouchy and loose-limbed and shoeless—if he doesn’t take off his shoes, Clara hits him with hers—despite all of that, his hands are still balled into fists, meaning he’s not decompressed at all.

Clara ignores all this and begins carefully examining the pillow in her lap, trying to imprint the image into her mind, concentrating so hard in the hopes that she’ll forget every pair of lips she’s ever seen in her life.

And then the Doctor’s grabs her hand, entwines their fingers.

Clara looks at him.

“Do you—“ he starts, licks his lips (damnit), and starts again. “Can I…touch you? Not like, you know, not that I don’t, you know, just—“

“Yeah, whatever. You, you can lead. I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

The Doctor nods. Then hauls Clara into his lap.

Clara squawks. She sometimes forgets how strong he is—like, alien strong, strong like his spindly little arms shouldn’t be.

He somehow, wordlessly, manages to communicate that Clara should lean back, and suddenly she’s laying against his shoulder. He’s got one arm around her waist, with the other he catches her hand again, holding it in so that his hand covers hers, their fingers interwoven.

He’s hugging her to himself, like he’s afraid of losing her.

“This is nice,” he says into her hair. She’s pretty sure he’s smelling it. This is not even the 15th weirdest thing he’s done since they made their relationship more physical, since they became…closer. Both metaphorically and literally.

“Yeah,” Clara replies. And it is. It shouldn’t be, the angle’s kind of weird, and he’s still smelling her, but it’s, against all odds, nice.

For a moment, he holds her just a bit tighter. “You wanted—I mean, I could tell—the lips. And I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t, but I can’t right now. But this? I want this. And I hope—“

“It’s perfect,” Clara interrupts, because it will reassure him, but also because it kind of is.

“Perfect,” the Doctor echoes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twelvedole, cuddling when it's raining, for anonymous

It’s raining. The Doctor sits in his office, hand propping his head up, looking at the rain hitting the window in, water streaming down it. There’s a messy stack of student papers near his elbow, and a single essay in front of him. No grade on it, no markings at all, save for ‘Read about mountain climbing’ scrawled messily along the top.

The Doctor sits at his desk, but his mind is miles away.

“No,” Nardole says. He’s sitting in a plush leather chair, legs kicked up on the desk, reading a comic book.

“I didn’t say anything,” the Doctor snaps, eyes refocusing as he shoots a glare at Nardole.

“You were thinking it though.”

“You don’t know what I was thinking. You’re not telepathic. That’s me. I’m the telepathic one.”

Nardole knows for a fact that the Doctor’s rather shit at the whole telepathy thing. “And quite good you are, too.”

“Right,” the Doctor says, sitting up a bit taller. “Right. So you don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking that it’s miserable. That it’s raining. That it’s England. And wouldn’t it be okay if you just popped into the TARDIS and popped off somewhere else?”

“I was thinking—“ the Doctor begins. “I was thinking we should go to the Bahamas.”

“No.”

“It would still be the same time period. And the same planet. Just a little to west.”

“No.”

“We could have mojitos.”

“I don’t know what those are, and no.”

“Unusually fancy alcoholic drink with lots of green things in them. I’ll show you. In the Bahamas.” The Doctor stands up, gives his most winning smile, holds his hand out. The boyish, charming look, the one that’s convinced hundreds of companions to run off with a madman in the box. “Come on!”

Nardole shakes his head and sets his comic book aside.. “No.”

Nardole’s seen this before, periodically. When it’s raining. When there hasn’t been an Earth-based alien incursion in a while. When he inevitably runs into another alien. He wants to run. He’s bored. He wants to be anywhere but Bristol, England, Earth.

The Doctor deflates, suddenly. Slumping back down into his chair, so low in it that his eyes are almost level with the desk top. He looks sad. He looks old.

It hurts Nardole, it really does, to do this every time the Doctor gets itchy feet.

But they both have a responsibility. The Doctor made a promise. The vault needs a guard.

“I love the rain,” Nardole says into the silence.

“It’s stupid. And boring,” the Doctor says petulantly. “And wet. And muddy. Disgusting.”

“I love the sound of rain,” Nardole adds. “And the way light comes through rainy windows, leaving all these strange shadows. Look.”

The Doctor follows Nardole’s hand to look at where Nardole’s pointing, where the light is. Only his eyes move. Despondent.

“It’s a stupid sound. Annoying.”

“And I love finding a nice fuzzy blanket and making myself some tea, and sitting under that fuzzy blanket, and listening to the rain.” Nardole stands, now. “In fact, I think I’m going to do that. Would you like to join me?”

The Doctor narrows his eyes at Nardole. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m trying to cheer you up. It’s not actually a big secret.”

“It’s still a trick. A happiness trick.”

Nardole’s grabbed the Doctor’s arm, fruitlessly tries to pull the Doctor up.

The Doctor barely budges. He’s gone limp like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

But he hasn’t snatched his arm away.

“I want hot chocolate,” the Doctor says. “And popcorn.”

“We’ve got that,” Nardole says with a nod. “And a microwave, somewhere.”

They both try to avoid going into the TARDIS unless absolutely necessary. The backroom to the office has an ad hoc kitchen, including a stove the Doctor’s somehow managed to hook up. It also has A couch, a sound system, and a California King size bed.

It also may now be ever-so-slightly bigger on the inside.

This time the Doctor lets himself be pulled to his feet. Nardole smiles at him as brightly as he can manage, leads the Doctor to the backroom, and leaves him slumped on the couch while he makes the hot chocolate and finds the microwave, starting the popcorn.

When Nardole returns to the couch, the Doctor is already eating biscuits that he’s conjured from somewhere, wrapped in a plaid fleece blanket. He looks forlorn. But he also looks comfy. Nardole considers this a small victory.

“Feel better?” Nardole ventures as they both tuck into the popcorn, breaking it up with occasional sips (or gulps, in the Doctor’s case) of cocoa.

The Doctor’s not in a talking mood.

He does let Nardole into his fleece blanket cocoon, though, then offers him a custard cream, which Nardole graciously accepts.

They make short work of the popcorn and the biscuits. The Doctor practically chugs his hot chocolate. Nardole’s lasts longer. And all the while, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Doctor appears to be moving closer and closer to Nardole, until he’s leaning heavily against him, poking him in the side until Nardole wraps an arm around him.

It’s slightly uncomfortable for Nardole—the Doctor is very spindly—but after moving him a bit, laying them both down, and adjusting so that he’s spooning the Doctor rather than having the Doctor laying on him, he finds himself comfortable, happy, and feeling quite peaceful.

Neither of them says anything, the rain loud and comforting in the quiet.

The Doctor pulls Nardole’s arm around him again, draping it across his chest, hugging it to himself possessively, like a treasured stuffed toy. “I think we’re technically engaged now.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the hot chocolate. It’s a proposal, at least for the Aztecs. I became engaged to a woman once, that way. So. I accept your proposal, I suppose.”

“That’s nice,” Nardole says cheerfully. “I must warn you, though, I’m a fan of long engagements.”

“Oh, me too. In fact, I think I’m still engaged to that Aztec woman,” the Doctor replies thoughtfully.

“I’m thinking a spring wedding,” Nardoles says.

“Oh. I wanted summer.”

“Split the difference and marry in May?”

The Doctor turns to face Nardole. He’s genuinely cheerful now. “That sounds nice.”

“Good.”

“No, I mean that sounds nice. The rain. Well, and the wedding date too, but mostly the rain.”

“Yes, it is very relaxing, isn’t it?” Nardole hums.

The Doctor nods, throws his own arm around Nardole, pulls them closer together, and with their foreheads touching, very earnestly says. “Would like to know how to make a mojito?”

“Might as well. But it’s your turn to go to the shops next, so you’re going to have to get the ingredients.”

“Whatever,” the Doctor says, which means he’s going to forget to get the ingredients and pawn it off on Nardole. “Anyway. The main alcohol is white rum, but you actually start, separately, with lime juice.”

If the Doctor notices Nardole’s eyes close after a time, and his breathing growing rhythmic as he falls to sleep, it doesn’t stop the Doctor from tucking his head under Nardole’s chin, and telling Nardole’s chest anything and everything that his brain thinks of.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara/Missy, cuddling when it's raining

“See? You can’t leave. It’s raining,” Missy says.

This is an understatement. The planet Tygarrus is known for disastrous, months-long typhoons, during which travel is an impossibility and citizens find themselves stuck where they are. Dwellings are built, impossibly high up off the ground, and all of them stocked with government supplied rations that are refilled and renewed at least once a year. 

The human colonists, because they are human, and thus, a tiny bit insane, have taken to seeing this as only a minor inconvenience. 

Outside it’s chucking it down. Winds in excess of 350 miles per hour, hail and rain coming down so hard it can rip skin to shreds. Inside, with the insulation and the sound proofing, all Clara can hear is faint, if rapid, tapping of rain against the roof and sides of the building. 

She really should’ve checked the weather report on this planet before wandering away from Me, getting into trouble, then deciding to hate-fuck her former best friend’s former best friend. But then, Clara’s not a great one for planning, or at least sticking to plans.

She is a great one for recklessness, though. And a great one for shagging, if she does say so herself.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. They have a routine. They’ll occasionally run into one another through time and space, Missy will be in the midst of some sort of evil plan, they’ll argue heatedly, then fuck heatedly, then the evil plan will be thwarted, attempted murder will happen on behalf of one or both of them, and one or both of them will abscond off into the galaxy. Rinse and repeat.

Clara, privately, thinks of the whole set-up as ‘enemies with benefits.’

But now she’s stuck with Missy in some stranger’s house. For what is, likely, months. 

Clara would have usually done a runner by this point, but obviously can’t now. And one of the chief reasons she likes to do a runner, other than the general shame one feels after one has fucked someone really quite evil who once did terrible things to the corpse of your boyfriend, is that Missy is snuggly after sex.

Four limbs feel like at least eight, and Missy’s rubbing her cheek against Clara’s body while absently tracing patterns on her skin. 

Missy nibbles on her ear, then whispers into it. “You’re my favorite human.”

Snuggly and lovey-dovey. And soft, and gentle, and terrific smelling, and all the things you don’t want your genocidal maniac sex partner to be, because that tends to trick you out of remembering that they’re genocidal and a maniac.

More than a month of this. 

It’ll be a miracle if they both make it out of this without killing each other and alive (well, for a certain definition of alive, in Clara’s case).

Fuck it. Might as well enjoy it. 

Clara relaxes into Missy’s embrace, turns her brain off, and let’s Missy pet her and whisper schmaltzy nonsense into her ear.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quissy, cuddling in the dark, for evilqueenofgallifrey/mayfairy

Quill is not afraid of the dark. The dark is, in her experience, rarely as dark as people make it out to be. There’s usually some light source from somewhere, enough to let you make out shapes and movement. And if it’s dark outside, then there’s moonlight, however faint.

To get a true dark, a complete dark, requires special conditions. You either have to really work at it, no windows, sealed door, ventilation (if you want it) engineered so that the nearest source of light is several twists and turns of air ducts away. 

Or you could just create a completely sealed space, which is easier to accomplish, but almost certainly deadly.

Quill and Missy have been thrown into a dark cell. A DARK cell. Serious dark. True dark.

Now Quill’s trying to figure out if this is supposed to be torture or a death sentence.

“If it were me, I’d want it to be both,” Missy says breezily.

Quill pulls a face Missy can’t see. A face that says ‘kindly fuck off and be less telepathic at me while I am strategizing.’

“No, I didn’t get that from telepathy,” Missy replies. “I got that from the pacing. You can be awfully transparent sometimes, darling. Of course, this last bit, yeah, this is completely telepathic.”

“Shut up,” Quill snaps. “I’m trying to think.”

“No, dear. You’re not thinking, you’re panicking. Come. Sit down.”

Quill can’t think of a response that wouldn’t sound childish or petulant, so she makes a frustrated noise and just keeps pacing, measuring the cell in precise steps.

Missy huffs, annoyed. When she speaks, Quill can practically hear the eye-roll in her tone. “If it’ll make you feel better, it’s not sealed. I can smell fresh air. And there’s an ever-so-slight air current, just over here–”

A hand wraps around Quill’s wrist. More out of instinct (and yes, probably, at least a little, panic) than anything else, she aims a punch at roughly where she’d imagine the owner of the hand’s torso would be. She’s guessed correctly, but Missy is, annoyingly, faster and stronger than she is, grabs and holds Quill’s fist.

Quill tries to pull both of her arms free, but Missy holds them fast.

“Play nice,” Missy tsks. “And come here.”

Reluctantly, sullenly, Quill lets Missy steer her towards a spot in the cell, coaxes Quill until she’s holding a hand up, palm flat, right in a certain spot.

There is, Quill must admit, grudgingly, the slightest bit of air flow there.

“See? Not a death sentence,” Missy coos, before pulling Quill closer, stroking her cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “And it doesn’t have to be torture either.”

Missy leads Quill to one corner of the cell, sits them both down, pulls Quill towards her. Quill has soon wrapped her arms around Missy’s waist, head resting on Missy’s chest as Missy absently strokes her hair, their legs tangling together.

“Did the mean old Rhodians do something like this to you?”

Quill’s silent, which isn’t in her nature, and so is answer enough.

“Well, Missy is here now. And in no time, some silly guard will likely come by to check on us, and one of us will murder them horribly, steal their keys, and then we’ll make our daring escape. Won’t that be nice?”

“Not really,” Quill mumbles, voice muffled against Missy’s chest. “It’s been a pretty shit day and daring escapes tend to be messy and exhausting.”

“You have a point,” Missy admits, although, to be fair, horrible murder generally outweighs any of the inconveniences inherent in daring escapes, at least for her. “How about you just rest up and take a nap?”

“That’s a frankly absurd idea,” Quill says. “This isn’t exactly a napping situation. I’m not just going to fall asleep in a pitch black jail cell.”

Missy ignores Quill and begins to sing softly, wordlessly.

Quill ends up falling asleep in a pitch black jail cell.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twelve/algae emperor, cuddling in the water, anonymous

In general, the Doctor’s not the biggest fan of water, particularly in this body. It tends to be very, well,  _wet_ , and the Doctor’s not the biggest fan of getting wet. Velvet doesn’t react well to water. And neither does their hair, really. 

The Doctor also isn’t the biggest fan of cuddling, in this body, either. Alright, that’s not quite true. They loves a good cuddle, curling themselves around a warm body, or letting a body curl around them. Nuzzling their face into soft hair or a smooth neck. Having their back rubbed or hair stroked. It’s lovely. Cuddling with the right person is even better than biscuits, and certainly better than the genital activities that the people they generally let cuddle them seem to prefer, but which they’re not as fussed with. Not as good as cuddling.

That stuff’s nice, fun. “Like a rock concert,” the Doctor says, not quite realizing they’ve said this out loud. “Really, shockingly similar to a rock concert, actually. A lot of sweating and bodies being jostled about and loud noises and rhythm. Do you think anyone’s noticed that before?”

 _What are you talking about?_ asks the Emperor of the Algae Peoples of Karphazin V. (Well, the TARDIS is translating his title as emperor, particularly since he’s an elected emperor. The Doctor could argue with her about the linguistic complexities of the word, and how she’s simplifying the whole thing, but it’s usually a bad idea to argue with the TARDIS. And besides, she does what she wants, regardless.) The message is communicated via a complex mixture of burbling, elegant motions of tendrils, and a general psychic suggestion of the words. 

The Doctor is a tentative fan of cuddling, in that they have a list, both mental and physical (although they cannot remember where they put the hard copy) of acceptable, trusted cuddle partners. 

Quite recently, and unexpectedly, that list has grown to add one (1) Emperor of, and made of, Algae.

This would explain why the Doctor is presently floating on their back, clad only in a pair of swim trunks, in the middle of a vast, intelligent ocean, buoyed by the gentle tendrils of the Algae Emperor, who is a gentle soul, and quite taken with them.

“I was talking about sex acts,” the Doctor replies.

The Algae Emperor makes a sound akin to a chuckle, deep, low, and wet. The shade his luminescent body is glowing changes slightly. His tendrils tighten around the Doctor’s body, not possessively or even particularly aggressively. The touch is, instead, solid, reassuring, safe, although the Doctor can, of course, since the underlying desire coming from the emperor. 

_You are such a strange and beautiful creature._

“Thanks,” the Doctor says, because they don’t know how to react to flirting. “Do you like the body? I got it in Pompeii.” 

They find themselves, despite themselves, purring contentedly in response to the tightening tendrils, one reaching out to stroke their cheek fondly. 

_Would that I could make you my empress._

“I’m not the settling down type of girl. Never one to put down roots,” they reply, smirking at their own pun, as part of the complicated expanse that is the emperor’s body is, legitimately, rooted deep within the ocean.

_Then we most enjoy the time we have._

“Yes,” they agree. “Do you like rock concerts?”


End file.
